


Bless him with blood

by songofproserpine



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Human/Vampire Relationship, M/M, Shameless Smut, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22708102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songofproserpine/pseuds/songofproserpine
Summary: “Life begins in blood,” Goro had once told him, holding his lips to the corner of Akira’s mouth. “All life begins ugly and raw—savage. Beauty only comes by living.”Akira had shivered to hear him say this, and not just because the tips of Goro’s fangs flashed as he spoke. He shivered again, now, to think of these words, to think of Goro’s voice, which was so clear and crisp in his memory. The memory of Goro’s voice and lips and teeth flared like a burn over Akira’s skin. He held a hand to his throat, right over the pinprick scars that never seemed to fade, and closed his eyes.All life begins ugly and raw—savage. Beauty only comes by living.And with loving, too—some kinds of love, anyway.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 28
Kudos: 295





	Bless him with blood

**Author's Note:**

> happy valentine's!

“We have to keep meeting like this,” Akira said, rolling up his sleeve to bare the veins in his wrist.

“I know the terms of our deal,” Goro said, his eyes dropping to the exposed flesh and the trail of thick blue veins. “There’s no need to remind me.”

Akira slid the small pearl button into the slit in his sleeve, pinning it in place. “Just making sure. You can find blood anywhere, right?”

Goro held his gaze to Akira’s offered wrist. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even breathe as Akira slowly extended his arm with all the ease of handing off a plate to a dinner guest.

“What gave you the impression that _any_ blood will do for me?” he whispered, curling his fingers around Akira’s hand. He lifted Akira’s wrist to his lips and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of warm skin flush with life and blood.

As the cool, sweet scent of Goro’s breath hit the air, Akira’s heart nudged against his ribs then rose into a fast thump. If he could hear his heart beating, then Goro certainly could, yet the vampire’s composure did not break.

“I always thought vampires couldn’t survive if they were picky,” Akira said.

Goro laughed. It was a soft, pleasant laugh. He turned Akira’s hand over and playfully nipped at the ridges of bone on his knuckles. “Picky? No. But we do have our preferences--certain tastes that appeal far more than others.”

Akira’s knees sank and then locked in place. If he collapsed now, he’d drag Goro down with him, and he _really_ didn’t feel like doing this on the floor--at least, not a floor that was dirty, dusty, and carpetless. “So you’re saying I’m to your taste?”

“Yes.” The word came out like a hiss. “Yes, you are.” Goro’s fangs skimmed Akira’s skin as he spoke.

Akira bit his lip, holding in the breathless whimper that crawled up his throat.

Goro heard it anyway. With a wink and a grin, he turned over Akira’s hand again and ran the tip of his nose up Akira’s palm, over his wrist, to the bend of his elbow, following the vein all the way.

“Say when,” Goro growled. He placed his other hand on Akira’s hip as he sank to his knees.

Akira shivered, and it was that thrilling ripple that tore the gasp from his lips. He heard Goro hum appreciatively as he traced feather-light kisses down Akira’s arm.

“When,” Akira said, closing his eyes. He sank the fingers of his free hand into Goro’s hair.

“Breathe with me,” Goro said.

Together they took a breath. Together they held it, and together they exhaled--but only Goro bit down. They shared a moan as Akira’s blood slid over Goro’s tongue. A wave of pleasure swayed through Akira’s mind, scattering his thoughts like driftwood in a high tide. Back and forth, back and forth, in and out, just like the flow of blood from a willing vein to an open mouth.

An image appeared in Akira’s mind, a small thing, like a cinder at first, before it burned bright and brilliant. A wish, a dream, of his and Goro’s first night together not as vampire and donor, but as they were beneath it all, secret and safe and sacred: two lovers, shrouded by dark.

He wondered when it would come true--and if Goro wished for it, too.

* * *

Akira heard them before he saw them. Loud voices, jeering laughs, the clatter of hooves and boots on the cobblestone street.

 _Hunters_.

A tremor passed through his hands as Akira walked to the window. His apartment over the blood clinic where he worked looked out on one of the main streets in the city--useful, for a young man who much preferred to watch the world than take part in it. Akira peered down at the street below, staying just out of sight behind the lace curtains. He would not be asked to join the hunt--he never was, not because of his age, but his status. As he was often told, there were “precious few” blood saints like him still around. Akira would enjoy this praise more if it didn’t always come at the literal point of a needle and the cold, dispassionate bedside manner of clinic doctors poking his veins like miners strike for gold.

The newly filled glass phials holding Akira’s blood trembled on the shelves as a fleet of carriages rattled past, following the first group of hunters. They were all heading north through the square towards the great bridge on the west side of the city square. Akira waited for them to pass with a tight expression and downcast gaze. He hunched his shoulders and crammed his hands into his pockets, searching for a warmth he did not feel.

It was pointless to hope that no one got hurt on this night’s hunt. Violence was in the very nature of a hunt, and a blood saint’s duty was to donate whenever needed, as demanded. That wasn’t why Akira was nervous.

He was nervous because of a promise.

 _“I’ll come to you on the night of the next hunt,”_ Goro had vowed, securing another layer of gauze along the holes he’d bit into Akira’s wrist.

 _“Why?”_ Akira had asked, his voice raspy and faint. He could never speak louder than that when Goro was near--or when his lips and teeth were involved.

_“It’s easier for me.”_

_“Don’t you mean riskier?”_

_“No,”_ he’d laughed, smiling wide enough so that Akira could see his teeth. _“Easier, by far. No one will think to look for someone like me_ indoors _\--much less in a blood clinic. It would seem all too obvious, wouldn't it? Even better, no one will be around to interrupt us.”_

_“For what?”_

_“For exactly what you want: a night with me in your bed.”_

The bell of the great cathedral tolled in the distance, jarring Akira from his memory. He blinked, startled, and wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his trousers.

Akira wasn’t sure why the bell was ringing now: for the hour, or the call of the hunt? He peered at his pocket watch and scowled at the hands. _6:22._ That certainly didn’t help. Morning, or evening? Akira couldn’t tell, and the sky gave no answers. Mornings in Yharnam were a misnomer. There was no “morning” at all, just a cycle of dusk, twilight, and a long, cold night.

A long, low howl of wind whipped around the clinic, bringing with it the smell of singed hair and charred meat. Once the bells faded, Akira could hear a distant, deep thud, over and over. It sounded like an ax hacking steadily at a thick tree trunk—or a line of bare necks.

Akira frowned. Guillotines were quick, clean, merciful. Hunts were never meant to be any of the three. The hunters were nowhere in sight, but the Hunt was still on, and he would pay a decent amount of the wages he earned at the clinic that this sound came from those very same hunters playing executioner.

Heat flooded Akira’s stomach, pushing a surge of bile up the back of his throat. Everyone stood to lose something precious in a Hunt—wives, husbands, children, friends, and family of all kinds were at risk if the hunters didn’t do their solemn, bloody duty. But only Akira could lose someone _to_ the Hunt.

“He’ll be fine,” Akira said, closing the window with a tight snap. He turned away from his reflection and its pinched, worried expression. “He can take care of himself.”

Despite his best efforts, Akira’s worries followed him through the day as he went to work downstairs at Takemi’s blood clinic. He wasn’t a doctor, and technically not even a qualified assistant, but he did have an important role to play all the same.

When he wasn’t needed as a donor, the clinic put him to work in an equally necessary and degrading task: janitor. There was a sort of brutal dignity in Akira’s role as the clinic’s cleaner; he didn’t just organize rooms, dust shelves, and sweep and mop the floors, he made the whole damned place presentable. He bleached and sterilized the gauze, rolling them through the purifying incense the grand cathedral sold at Monday services. He cleaned saws, screws, mallets, flechettes, and all other sorts of sharp objects necessary for quick surgery on those recently brought in from the Hunt. His shoulders, though slightly stooped, were strong and solid from carrying buckets of bad blood in and out of the clinic, and pour them down the sewer grate in the backyard, leaving whatever miserable wretches lurked in the aqueducts to suffer their stench.

Akira may not be directly saving the clinic’s patients lives, but he was tending to them all the same. The things he did were ugly and often painful, but they were necessary.

 _“Life begins in blood,”_ Goro had once told him, holding his lips to the corner of Akira’s mouth. _“All life begins ugly and raw—savage. Beauty only comes by living.”_

Akira had shivered to hear him say this, and not just because the tips of Goro’s fangs flashed as he spoke. He shivered again, now, to think of these words, to think of Goro’s voice, which was so clear and crisp in his memory. Goro’s voice and lips and teeth had flared like a burn over Akira’s skin. He held a hand to his throat, right over the pinprick scars that never seemed to fade, and closed his eyes.

_All life begins ugly and raw—savage. Beauty only comes by living._

And with loving, too—some kinds of love, anyway. Akira wondered what Goro might say if he knew these feelings lurked inside the blood saint’s heart. He wondered still how Goro could not taste it each time he drank from a vein.

And what would he say if he did?

_Are my feelings raw or ugly, with no hope for beauty?_

Maybe that didn’t matter. Perhaps all that was required in life was to be a fool, and to walk forward without a care, unflinching, reckless, determined.

But what was the difference between that and love?

* * *

That night, sore from work and smelling as sweet as a briar rose from the bath, Akira stripped down to his trousers, climbed into bed, and turned to face his window. The moon was large and low that night, tinged red as if in sympathy for the blood spilled by the Hunt. It peeped through the withered branches of the oak tree outside his window, casting a faint scarlet light into his room.

Akira counted his breaths as he waited for Goro. Anticipation was such a delightful thing—no other feeling knew how to pull at Akira’s heart quite like wanting—but to be left too long without satisfaction was bitter and brutal. It is a miserable thing, to be left in desire with no way or promise of having.

To pass the time, Akira thought back to when he and Goro first met. 

“I assumed all humans would be wise enough to be afraid of me. Or are you just a fool?” Goro had asked over a year ago. Akira found him in the backyard, his sleeves rolled up on his arms, baring delicate hands, thin wrists, and swatches of light brown hair—all slick and sticky with blood.

Akira thought it a strange thing, that a creature he’d always been told to fear as cunning and beautiful and tempting, was here kneeling in the dirt, scooping out handfuls of blood from the sluice that ran into the sewer.

“Right now I’m wondering why you’re scooping blood out of my sewer,” Akira fired back, unconcerned, even with the red eyes flashing and fangs visible. “Instead of coming inside to steal a phial or two.”

“Trespassing is not on my current list of sins,” Goro said. He extended his arms to the side, showing his bloody hands in a motion that was half shrug, half an accidental pose of a grieving saint. “Should I be insulted or impressed by your courage?”

“Are we going to stand here all night talking,” Akira said, suppressing a yawn, “or are you going to finish what you’re doing and leave my yard in peace? I’ve got an early day tomorrow, and I need to sleep.”

“Impressed, then,” Goro had murmured, his voice low with wonder. He could have been speaking to himself, but did so at such a volume so that Akira could still hear him. “Fine. Have it your way.”

Akira stood there and watched Goro drink his fill from the sluice, clean his hands and wrists with a handkerchief, and then rise up to his feet. He stood eye to eye with Akira, if not barely an inch taller, with a quick, confident stride that had him standing in front of Akira in no time.

With a sly smile, Goro held out the still bloody handkerchief. “Here.”

Akira scowled. “Why would I want that?”

“Think of it like a good luck charm,” he’d said. “There are others out there like me who aren’t as sociable as I am. This should keep them away.”

“How?”

“They’ll smell me on you,” Goro said, his tongue curling along his front teeth as he spoke. “They’ll assume I’ve claimed you, and so they’ll stay away.”

Akira’s heart was kicking up a riot in his chest. _Claimed?_ He wanted to know exactly what that meant, but before he could clear his throat and ask, Goro cut him off.

“You don't have to like what I offer to make good use of it.” He shook the handkerchief, as if to tempt a cat to come closer for a treat. “And I won’t use that as an excuse to meet you again, if that’s what has you so concerned.”

“I wouldn’t mind that.” The words left Akira’s mouth before he knew they wanted to be said.

Goro raised an eyebrow.

Akira licked his lips. Might as well run with it now that he was on a roll. “How about we make a deal?” he asked.

“What could you have that I’d--”

“Blood,” Akira said. Now it was his turn to cut Goro off. “Mine, specifically.”

“In exchange for what?”

“For you… claiming me. Or pretending to, at least.”

Goro tilted his head, examining him with renewed interest. “And why would you do that?”

“I don’t like being in people’s debt. If we make a deal, then we don’t owe each other anything.”

“Ah. How positively transactional.” Goro nodded in approval—as if Akira needed that—and held out his left hand.

“Deal,” he said.

Akira held his breath and carefully closed his hand around Goro’s. He wore a glove, but even so Akira could feel the strength and faint warmth of his skin, flushed from his recent meal.

“When do we start?” Goro asked, his eyes dancing around Akira’s face, with brief dips down to his throat.

Akira pulled his hand out of Goro’s grasp and reached up to undo the buttons on his collar. “Right now.”

Goro’s dark red eyes brightened like fresh blood. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he purred, and waited until Akira’s throat and upper chest were bare before he stepped forward, curled one hand around the back of Akira’s head, and sank his teeth into the boy’s willing throat.

Having his throat bit and blood drank was nothing at all like when Akira was forced to donate blood at the clinic. The needles were crammed in with no care, often leaving bruises that spilled along Akira’s arms from the torn veins. Goro’s teeth were precise, swift, and almost tender. As if the act of feeding were a thing he not only cherished, but spent some time learning to perfect.

As the weeks and meetings passed, Akira and Goro decided to meet in one of the upstairs storage rooms, seldom used and often forgotten about entirely. It suited both of them just fine. Akira’s bedroom wasn’t far away, in case he felt faint after each… visit, and Goro was granted access to the clinic through the invitation.

“Does that mean you can come inside whenever you want?” Akira asked, leaning against Goro weakly. He may have been playing it up _just_ a bit, looking for an excuse to lean into Goro’s chest and feel the press of his arms.

“Yes… But I know better than to make myself a nuisance where I’m not wanted.”

 _I’ll always want you,_ Akira thought--thought and wanted to say. But then Goro was feeding on him again, slowly, carefully, and soon Akira could do nothing more but collapse in Goro’s arms and let the vampire draw him down to the floor, carefully angling Akira on top so that the blood dribbled onto Goro’s obscenely outstretched tongue.

Something warm began to burn in Akira’s chest. It spread like wildfire down past his navel, between his legs, and flared out across his thighs. _That_ particular memory was one of Akira’s favorites. He’d thought of it often on nights like this, in bed, alone, needy.

Goro's knock at the window was prompt, precise, rattling the glass in the frame. Akira climbed out of bed and felt as if a part of him was still stuck in the sheets. He felt cleaved from himself, watching himself move and being aware that he was the one moving at the same time. Every movement was done at an odd disconnect—that was Akira’s hand that moved, yes, that was his chin that lifted as he stepped back, giving Goro enough space to step into his room. That was Akira’s mouth that moved in a smile, his voice that whispered a hushed, heated, “Long time no see,” as Goro moved closer. All these things were both done by him, and done outside of him.

That was how Akira always felt when Goro was near. It was as if he wasn’t whole or complete; there was Akira, as he was, born and raised and living, and then there was Akira, kept by a secret that should be called sin if only his soul didn’t thrill at the touch of it.

Goro stepped into the room and reached out to stroke the scars on Akira’s throat with all the reverence of a man clutching the relics of a saint. He ran the tip of one of his fingers down the front of Akira’s neck, and the blood saint shivered from the burning chill his touch left behind.

“These should have healed by now,” he said, his eyes narrowing on the scars. “I can help, if that’s what you’d like.”

Akira shook his head and reached out to take hold of Goro’s wrist. Keeping that cool, soft touch against his skin, Akira closed his eyes and said, “I like seeing them. I like that they’re there.”

“Do you?” Goro moved his hand down to the hollow of Akira’s throat, then the front of his chest.

Akira opened his eyes and nodded. Before he could speak, Goro slid his fingers across the sturdy spread of bone that shielded Akira’s heart, and held his hand flat to feel Akira’s pulse.

It was difficult, sometimes, to know what Goro thought in these first few moments of their reunions. He seldom spoke before he took from Akira’s body and blood; he seemed to think all conversation should be held later, in the stinging afterglow, as he wrapped bandages around Akira’s throat (or thighs, or hips, or wrists—wherever he had decided to savor that night). Goro did most of the talking at those times, and Akira was glad to listen, distracted as he was with dizziness and a strange, silken, hazy delight, the kind that usually only happened after Akira took from his own body alone in bed.

Akira’s heart gave an eager leap up against his chest as Goro slid his hand up to his throat once more and curled his fingers around the back of it, gliding his touch to the back of Akira’s head. He chewed his lip to hold back a moan as Goro pulled him closer, leaning his body in as if there were still space dividing them. Akira could _feel_ Goro beneath his clothes, feel the cold press of his belt, feel the thin, firm chains of his pocket watch, all of these things making Akira more keenly aware of his body.

Goro hummed as he skimmed the tip of his nose against Akira’s neck. He breathed in, long, low, deep. Akira heard the faint, wet sound of him parting his lips, and knew that Goro was tasting him in the air.

"Did the hunt give you trouble?" Akira asked, as if this were nothing more than a social call.

"It'd take more than a hunt to keep me from your door," Goro said quietly. “Did _you_ miss me?” he asked, and Akira couldn’t help but let out a quiet, sharp moan as the edges of Goro’s teeth grazed his skin.

Akira felt Goro’s smile, cold and hard and eager, against his throat, and clung to him, helpless. “It’s good to see you again,” he said by way of answer, hoping Goro could read between the lines of what went unsaid.

_I’m glad you’re safe._

_I’m glad you came back._

_I’m glad you still want to keep our deal._

“How badly did you miss me?” Akira asked.

“Every night,” Goro breathed, his voice as soft and sinfully silken as night music. “And every hour in it.”

Goro’s fingers formed a firm, but not choking, hold on the back of Akira’s neck, holding him still as he fixed his lips to Akira’s ear. “I want to try something new,” he said, tracing the band of Akira's trousers.

“And what’s that?” Akira asked, breathless. He hooked his fingers into the top of his pants and pushed them down his hips. Gravity did the rest.

Goro pulled his hand free, took hold of Akira’s shoulders, and spun him around. He pressed his chest flush against Akira’s back. “I want you on that bed, face down, on your stomach,” he said.

Akira lifted one of his shoulders in a shrug. “That’s easy enough,” he said, keeping his voice light and breezy. Another warm, slow trickle of pleasure moved from his stomach down between his legs.

Goro heard Akira’s tone and seemed intent on breaking through to the truth of it. Shortly after he spoke, Goro began to circle his thumbs around Akira’s nipples ever so slightly. He switched to tracing quick, swooping circles around them instead when Akira let out a hushed, helpless moan.

“And where will you be?” Akira asked once he found his breath.

Goro’s reply came with a low hiss—not of fury, but of need. He took hold of Akira’s hair and pulled hard enough to make him hiss as well, and moved his mouth to the side of Akira’s neck.

“On top of you,” he said, his voice lower than a growl, “inside you, with my teeth in your neck and your blood in my mouth.”

Akira’s heart, already thumping hard, nearly broke out into a sprint at these words. He closed his eyes and eagerly pictured it—pictured the two of them like that, making a mess of his foolishly pristine, white sheets. He pictured as well how it would feel to _do_ that, to make that stain, to make a new secret, one that Akira would take with him to his grave.

Despite the rawness of his voice and his apparent eagerness, Goro did not move or breathe another word. He had made his suggestion, and was now waiting for a response.

“Yes,” Akira whispered, his voice thin and small. “Yes,” he said again, louder this time, so there would be no mistaking it. “I want that, too.”

Akira took one of Goro’s hands, brought it up to his mouth, and gave it a long, loving kiss. Goro curled his fingertips against Akira’s cheek, stroking him in a wordless acceptance of that kind kiss.

“Lie down,” Goro whispered.

Akira stepped out of his trousers and climbed onto the bed, laying down on his stomach. The bed groaned as Goro joined him on it, settling his knees on either side of Akira’s thighs. At the sound of Goro undoing his belt, Akira chewed on the inside of his cheek and suppressed a moan. He focused all his attention on the hush and sigh of cloth as Goro undid his trousers. Eager to feel what he couldn’t see, Akira lifted his hips and tilted them back until he could feel the fabric of his clothes against the back of his thighs.

Goro’s hand came down on the back of Akira’s thigh in a swift, painless smack. “Stay still,” he said, keeping his hand on Akira’s still tingling skin. He leaned forward, the tip of his cock grazing the inside of Akira’s thigh.

“You’re going too slow,” Akira huffed. “I’ll be dead by the time you’re ready.”

“Not if I can help it,” Goro laughed.

Akira moaned quietly as Goro’s hand moved around his hip and then carefully, slowly, ran his fingers along the seam of Akira’s leg. Goro’s fingers slipped lower each time, first grazing Akira’s thigh, then curled around it, then just barely brushing what lay between his legs. Slowly, too slowly, he ran his fingers along the length of Akira’s cock, just barely taking it in grip before letting his touch flare off at the head.

The next few moments passed in warm, hushed words, teasing strokes, and quickly silenced whimpers—silenced as Akira bit his lip, then by Goro as he as he pushed his fingers into Akira’s mouth.

“Can’t have you waking the whole clinic,” he purred.

“I can be quiet,” Akira said, turning his head to the side so that Goro’s fingers slid over his cheek. “Tell me to do it, and I will.”

“Is that so?”

Akira nodded fast, breathless. “I promise to be good.” He turned his head to take Goro’s fingers in his mouth again and imagined them between his legs, or inside him. Akira moaned against his fingers, which only made Goro push them deeper into his mouth. He slid them slowly in and out, matching each movement to the hand that teased its touch along Akira’s cock.

Akira didn’t realize his moans were words until Goro pulled his fingers out of his mouth, bent his head to fit his lips to Akira’s ear, and asked, “What was that?”

“Touch me,” Akira whimpered.

Goro laughed. “I _am_ touching you,” he said, stroking one long, wet finger along the blood saint’s cheek. The hand he had between Akira’s legs stilled at his head, drawing the smallest, lightest circles around the tip.

Akira buried his face into the bed to hide another moan. “Not—enough,” he mumbled, his voice thick and muted from the sheets.

“So needy,” Goro said, his laugh turning his voice rough and warm. “If you want me to go further, then I’m afraid we’ll need--”

Akira jabbed a finger at the nightstand next to the bed. “Top drawer,” he said. “In the black velvet bag.”

Goro wasted no time removing that bag and the bottle inside. “I stand corrected,” he said, smiling at the phial of lubricant. “You aren’t needy--you’re _prepared._ ”

There was a strange tightness in his voice as he spoke, and a shadow over his eyes. Akira turned his head to the side and smiled, reaching out to run a hand down Goro’s ribs.

“It's all right,” he said. “’ve only used it on myself before.”

“The tension in Goro’s voice slowly unraveled, and his shoulders loosened along with it. “Is that why it’s half empty?”

Akira’s smile became a grin, toothy and teasing. “It was mostly full until tonight.”

He waited for the penny to drop, enjoying the sight of Goro’s clouded expression shifting from pensive, to puzzled--then pleased.

“You... prepared, then,” he said, flipping off the cap on the phial.

Akira nodded.

“Then I’ll make this quick,” he said, tilting what remained of the phial on his palm before he took his cock in hand.

Akira’s fingers curled in the sheets in anticipation of—and in response to—the mercilessly, tortuously slow press of Goro’s tip inside him. His eyes fluttered shut in blinding bliss as Goro gently eased in and out, barely breaching further than that.

When Goro pulled out completely and traced his thumbs in small circles around either side of Akira’s hips, Akira let out a gasp that was half twisted into a shriek. He arched up and let out a pitiful moan. It wasn’t _fair_ . Goro could touch him, tease him, and Akira just had to lay there and _wait._

“Please… _please_ ,” he hissed, clamping the sheets down between his teeth.

“Please what?” Goro asked, sliding the tip of his cock between Akira’s legs, but still refusing to push himself inside.

Akira could hardly speak. “I want—I want…”

Goro kissed the side of Akira’s neck, right over the spot where he usually tasted Akira’s blood. “What do you want?”

A tremor rippled down Akira’s back and curled, warm and vicious, between his legs, meeting the sweet sensation of Goro’s cock. Akira turned his head, trying to find Goro’s mouth, missing it, _needing_ it.

“I want you--deep--inside me,” he groaned. He almost yelped when Goro’s teeth skimmed along his throat.

“Like this?” he murmured, gliding his teeth over Akira’s pulse.

“Or like this?” he asked, gently easing the tip of his cock inside Akira again. “Or both?”

“ _Both_ ,” Akira whimpered, tears burning in his eyes.

“Oh, Akira,” Goro whispered against his neck before he kissed the pale, pearly scars that decorated it. “I thought you’d never ask.”

What happened next was both quick and timeless. Quick in that Akira could feel his heart hammering, every second racing, as Goro fit the head of his cock inside and pushed in, gently, gently, stretching Akira further than what his own fingers had already done. Quick in that the feel of Goro like this—not sharp, no, but an entirely new sort of stab all the same—Akira keenly aware of just how it felt to be filled, and how much more of Goro there was to take.

It was timeless in that all the world around Akira—the clinic, the city, all the horrors and fury and fear of the hunt and what they would do if they knew Akira was laying face down with a vampire in him—drifted away like whispers in the breeze. Timeless in that nothing in Akira’s life, nothing in any moment leading to this one, mattered at all.

Goro took his time easing in and pulling slightly, slowly, out. Akira would have thought this control was effortless if not for Goro’s shaky breaths, and the tremble of his fingers as he curled his arms around Akira’s chest and clung to his shoulders, embracing Akira from behind. Akira would have thought that this was, indeed, something Goro barely felt at all if he didn’t feel the warmth of his breath as he grunted each time he pushed deeper with every thrust.

And Akira would have thought this was all Goro wanted if he didn’t press his mouth to Akira’s neck and lick him.

Akira laughed, breathless, relieved. “Was waiting for you to want that,” he said, tilting his hips back to meet Goro’s thrusts. In response, Goro pushed harder and gradually, quietly, the sounds of skin on skin, hip to soft flesh, become an obscene murmur beneath his breath and words.

“Always wanted it,” Goro growled, and Akira cried out as his teeth slid over his skin, drawing blood but not quite yet a biting down. “I always want it—”

“So take it,” Akira hissed, as if he were the one being denied something sickening and savory. “Take me. Taste me.”

Needing no other invitation but that, Goro reached up, took a firm hold on Akira’s hair, dragged his head to the side, and sank his teeth into Akira’s neck.

Being bitten was always like an electric jolt without the pain. Akira’s muscles twitched, then went still, not rigid but suspended, weightless, cradled in the force of Goro’s thirst. Akira wasn’t sure how he managed it, but Goro always seemed to find a way to fill his thoughts not with a blank, black emptiness, nor gruesome imaginings of a wound gushing blood, but with a hazy, dreamy rush of warm colors, soft sounds.

This time, the images Goro coaxed into Akira’s mind by his eldritch power weren’t shapeless colors and vague sensations. They were transmitted with clear, cutting clarity, allowing Akira to see himself the way Goro did, and how he felt. Akira tasted his own blood in Goro’s mouth, and felt the relief that coursed through Goro’s every forced breath as he drank slowly, slowly, savoring every sip. Akira felt himself take Goro’s cock in deeper and deeper, until his hips snapped against the back of Akira’s thighs again and again. Akira felt what it was like, not just to have him inside in more than one way, but what it felt like to be joined, whole, complete.

Akira tilted his head back and cried out, half in awe, half in ecstasy. Goro’s thrusts grew rougher but he stayed inside, only moving his hips so that Akira could feel every bit of his length. Akira’s eyes fluttered shut as Goro took in a long, luscious sip of blood, moaning as it flowed over his waiting tongue. That moan became a growl as Goro timed his sips with his thrusts, flattening Akira into the mattress with the force of his weight and every hard stroke.

Soon, too soon, Akira felt his thighs begin to shake. He bucked back against Goro, only to be pushed back onto the bed by a hard, short thrust and a quiet murmur of praise. Goro’s weight did little to stop the swaying of Akira’s hips; his climaxes were always slightly dramatic affairs, even if they were mostly silent: arched back, parted lips, swaying hips that made him half rise off the bed as he came in long, quick, sticky bursts.

This climax was no different in its intensity, just different in how it was released. Akira clenched around Goro as he came, and the sudden tightness made Goro groan eagerly, weakly. Akira felt a trickle of his own blood slide wet and thick around his neck as Goro gently pulled his teeth out and buried his face against Akira’s shoulder instead.

“Akira… _Akira…_ ” Goro murmured, over and over again, his bloody lips framing it like a holy prayer. Akira rode out the rest of his orgasm in wordless delight, savoring every thrust and the stench of blood and the knowledge that it was _him_ making Goro weak like this. Him and no other.

As Akira’s nerves slowly began to settle, Goro steadied his hand on the bed next to Akira’s head and sank his fingers into the sheets. The blood saint watched, still hazy from his own release, as that hand tightened into the sheets and twisted, tearing it in a jagged stripe.

Goro licked Akira’s throat and whispered, “Wanted you… wanted this… So long.” He kissed and bit along Akira’s neck, taking short, greedy sips of blood and licking the skin clean.

“And now you have it,” Akira murmured, curling his toes against the sheets and shivering.

Goro’s thrusts grew more erratic with every bite and sip, until he gave one, two, three more long strokes and then grew still. Akira waited, half anticipating and half curious, to know what it would feel like to be… filled like that. It was not a sensation he was used to, never having experienced it before.

Goro let out three short, hard gasps, caught his breath, and quickly kissed the wounds on Akira’s neck. He curled an arm around Akira’s waist, moving them gently so they both lay on their sides, careful not to pull out of Akira.

Akira waited until his pulse settled into a steady rhythm before he spoke. “Did you…?” he began, then stopped, not quite sure how to phrase this.

“Did I what?” Goro asked, slurring his words. He nuzzled against the back of Akira’s neck and murmured sleepily.

“I mean… is there anything else I’ll have to clean up besides my blood?”

Goro paused. When the penny finally dropped, Akira was surprised to hear him huff. He almost sounded disgusted. “Don’t be so crude,” he said.

Akira rolled his eyes. “Says the guy with my blood in his mouth, and his cock in my—”

“I don’t-- _do_ that,” Goro cut in, but Akira could hear the laughter he worked to keep from his voice, indicating he was not at all bothered. “Not like you.” And to emphasize this point, Goro swiped his fingers along Akira’s stomach, still sticky with come.

“Oh,” Akira said, hiding his relief. Then, “Why?”

“If I had to guess,” he said simply, as if laying out instruments for surgery, “I would say it’s because there’s only one kind of life that a vampire can make. We are only born in blood: blood taken, and blood shared.”

A small piece of Goro’s life’s puzzle finally clicked into place. Akira stroked the back of Goro’s hand and thought carefully. “Have you done it before?”

“Never,” he said. “I never found anyone worthy of damning to this life with me, so I didn’t.”

“Would you ever do it?”

“Only if I had a good reason.”

“Like what?” Akira asked.

Goro pulled away just enough to give Akira room to turn around. The movement was as such that he slid out at last. Akira shivered from the unwelcome absence. He peered over his shoulder and searched for Goro’s face in the dark.

The moon was a pale red corona glowing behind Goro’s head. His face was mostly in shadow, but when he spoke, Akira could see the crisp and pale gleam of his teeth (what little were not stained by blood).

“I would if you asked me,” he said, with all the solemn sincerity of a wedding proposal—and the final lines of a eulogy. “You more than deserve to be damned like me.”

“Is it because I’m a blood saint, and you think it’d be fun to drag my name through the mud?”

A short gap of silence separated the question from Goro’s response. Then, with a slowly unfurling smile, Goro curled his fingers under Akira’s chin and tilted his head up, holding him in place for a kiss. It was warm, lingering, and bloody.

Goro gently slid his tongue along Akira’s, making him taste his own blood. “You’re no saint to me,” he whispered, breathing the words into Akira’s mouth, his bloody lips granting him small, ghosting kisses. “You’ve never been one. You're simply... you. Akira.”

Akira closed his eyes tight. It was easier, somehow, to speak his secret in this kind of darkness, in one he made himself. “No one’s ever said that to me,” he said, whispering this wound into the dark. “No one.”

“I’m not just anyone,” Goro said stroking Akira’s chin with his thumb.

Akira grit his teeth and opened his eyes, blinded by tears. “No, you aren’t. You’re--you--”

“Say it,” Goro hissed. “Speak.”

It took some time for Akira to gather his thoughts, and the courage to speak them.

“You--I _want_ you. I want to hear you say that you want me with you, for as long as we can stand each other.” Akira shuddered as he spoke, his heart beating so hard that his body swayed with the movement. “I want... I want to hear that you can't stand the thought of anything else being in me. Another man. Another vampire. Death itself, devouring and growing, is already inside. I want to hear that you'll put yourself there instead. I want to hear that you'd be jealous of the worms and the rot in my body, because they would get the last taste of me before you could."

Goro waited for the tears to clear from Akira’s eyes before he spoke again. When he did, his tone was dire, serious—more plea than prayer. “I would tear open my throat and bleed onto your lips if I thought for a moment you wanted a life like this.”

Akira wiped his face clear and laughed. “ _Now_ who’s needy?” he teased, Then, before he could assume the joke was sincere, Akira reached out and ran his fingers along Goro’s throat. He traced circles around Goro’s Adam’s apple, delighting to see his throat tense and shift under that touch.

Perhaps all that is required in life is to be a fool, and to walk forward into danger without a care.

“Are you gonna slit your throat,” Akira asked, his voice low, “or should I?”

Goro’s eyes never left Akira’s face as he reached for Akira’s hand and drew it to his vest pocket. He guided his fingers inside, where Akira found the small handle of the knife. Together, they pulled a hidden knife free and flicked it open. Goro laid the blade flat on Akira’s palm, and closed fingers around the handle.

“Cut me,” he said, raising Akira’s hand to his throat, placing the blade ever so gently against the side where his heart might still beat. “Cut me, bleed me, taste me—join me.”

And so, Akira did.


End file.
